


In the Aftermath

by terracotta29



Series: Riverview Universe [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, FACE Family, Family Drama, Gen, M/M, more to come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 23:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13511829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terracotta29/pseuds/terracotta29
Summary: Old regrets become new grudges, and sudden accidents leave many scars. A story of a family breaking apart and pulling itself back together.





	1. Arthur, 20 minutes after

**Author's Note:**

> This work is an updated/rewritten version of a story which I started posting on FF.net a long time ago. A version of this is still up on ff.net. This version, while similar, is quite different in method of storytelling, and has significant plot changes.

Arthur can’t hear the sirens anymore. The ambulance had sped off into the night quickly leaving him and Francis at the side of the road.

“There’s no more room,” the paramedic had told them gently, “We were only expecting one.”

He’d let them go quietly, because ‘time was of the essence in cases like this’ (said the police officer who’d stayed behind to escort them), but he’d bitten his lip the whole time to keep from screaming into the darkness. The minutes after were a blur, but he’d made his way inside the car somehow. He remembers that there was silence from his husband.   

The car rounds a corner too fast. Arthur’s seatbelt jerks him back into place, and he instinctively reaches out to grab the steering wheel – only he’s on the wrong side, and the blonde man in the driver’s seat is already gripping it so hard that his knuckles look pure white against the black leather.

Francis doesn’t drive, but Arthur doesn’t question it. There are more important things at stake right now, and whether or not Francis even has a valid driver’s licence is the least of their concerns. Arthur adds the sight to the list of impossible events that has been slowly growing in his head.

How could this have happened? Three hours ago there’d been celebrations (sort of), and then fighting and then… this. He looks out the window, hoping for some sort of distraction. The red and blue lights from the police car in front of them light their way, but make seeing the side of the road impossible.

He glances to his left. Francis’ hair, which he usually keeps under constant maintenance, is a soggy windswept mess. His eyes are narrowed, focusing too hard on the road in front of him, and his jaw is tense. Arthur doesn’t want to distract him from what may actually be his first time driving, but he has to know something. 

“Do you…” his voice trails off, so he clears his throat, “do you think they’ll be okay?”

The ice he’s trying to break freezes over quickly. He feels his fists clenching, his nails digging painfully into the palm of his hand while he waits for an answer – something, _anything._ So they’re angry at each other, but even Francis can’t be this –

But then fingers on his left hand are being softly pried apart. Francis’ right hand settles into his, and grasps it tightly. The reply is so quiet, that Arthur thinks he’s hearing things.

“They have to be.”


	2. Matthew, 7 days before

Monday Morning Family Breakfasts are a tradition dating back five years, when the Bonnefoy-Kirklands had first moved to Riverview. Monday mornings were no time for work, Papa had said – and his new job as a ‘marketing-director’ meant he didn’t have to do any. Perks of being the CEO’s son, Dad had quoted at him. Papa had rolled his eyes in response. Yes, nepotism was alive and kicking at the American branch of Bonnefoy Restaurants, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him enjoying it.

They used to be a quiet affair. But as Matthew had learnt recently, even tradition couldn’t stop his parents when they were set to go at each other’s throats.

“Arthur, I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

“You never do, do you?”

“You are being ridiculous. It is a dinner party.”

“A party I didn’t know was happening until Gilbert told me. _Gilbert_.”

His dad glowers from behind newspaper at his papa, who is busy making pancakes and pretending to be oblivious to his husband’s passive-aggressive tone.

“Dude. What is up with them?” whispers a voice from behind him.

Alfred, at 7am on a Monday morning, is not a pretty sight. His blue eyes are bloodshot, and his hair unkempt. His glasses are on his face, for once, but his clothes are rumpled. Matthew had woken up to an open window that he distinctly remembered closing. Alfred had probably opened it sneaking back inside.

“It’s too early.” Alfred complains, rubbing his eye and sitting down. “Or too late? I can’t tell.”

“You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit. You’re too loud.”

Matthew snorts, but lowers his voice for his brother’s sake.

“Hey Al, next time you decide to go out, could you remember to close the bloody window?”

“I came in through the window?” Alfred squints, and wrinkles his nose like the bunny they’d had when they were seven. “I don’t remember anything.”

“What time did you get in last night, anyway?”

“I told you, I don’t remember. Does it matter?”

Matthew shrugs. It’s not like Alfred would tell him anything anyway.

“What are you two whispering about?” Dad snaps. He’s finished throwing death glares at his husband and is now redirecting them at his youngest son. “Alfred, you look like you’ve been dragged through a bush.”

“Good morning to you too, Arthur.”  

Matthew sighs quietly. His papa notices, turns around from the stove, but Matthew misses the look of concern.

So it was going to be another one of those days. His brother and his dad were going to argue about ‘respect’, and ‘living up to your potential’, and ‘dad you don’t understand me’. Then Papa would swoop in, placate Dad or distract Alfred, and the whole thing would simmer until the next time Dad or Alfred opened their mouths.

Just another one of those days.

* * *

 

As expected, breakfast devolves into bickering. But for the first time since they’d begun two months ago, the argument isn’t temporarily fixed by Papa with coos and French compliments and promises of future activities. Instead, Alfred storms off, leaving his breakfast half-finished.

Dad tells Matthew to go after him, but Papa cuts him off.

“Matthew hasn’t finished his breakfast yet.”

“Alfred hasn’t either! Matthew needs to bring him back.”

“Let him go, Arthur. He’s not going to die eating three pancakes instead of six.”

He leaves despite his papa’s protests. It’s fine, really. He isn’t hungry anyway.

Alfred has gone too far ahead, so the walk to school is quiet. He is mistaken for his twin only once that morning (a junior loitering around the entrance of the school tries asking him out, before realising her mistake).

Matthew sits in the library before class. It’s the only place he knows Alfred would never go, making it a good place for thinking. Ten minutes before first period, he finds himself accosted by a pair of arms and he smiles.

Wang Xiao Mei and Wang Xiao Long, or Mei and Leon, are the only other twins in Matthew’s grade. Alfred and Matthew were practically adopted by them when they first moved, and they’ve been friends since.

Or at least, Matthew has been friends with them. Alfred… well, Matthew’s still not used to not having him around.

He wonders where his brother is now. Probably not at school. Alfred’s attendance this year has been like his dad’s cooking – consistently bad. The only time Matthew knows he’ll see Alfred is art class, because Alfred likes to wind up Mr. Braginsky, and the student teacher is, quote, ‘mega-smoking hot’.

“Matthew? Are you listening?”

“Huh?”

Mei gets his attention as they walk to art together. He’s been so caught up in thinking about his stupid brother, that he’s completely missed Leon’s departure.

“You okay, Matt?” Mei looks at him quizzically.

 “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.”

“Did you do the assignment?”

“I did, but not very well.”

Art is the only class Matthew has ever had with Mei. Before this year, he’d shared a lot of classes with Leon, and Mei with Alfred. “It’s a conspiracy”, Alfred would say; supposedly the four of them in one class would be “too awesome for reality to handle”.

“Better that than not at all!” Mei chirps. Her offhand statement that “Mr. B would probably kill anyone who didn’t do it” is delivered in a tone too cheerful for the words.

“Alfred’s totally screwed, isn’t he?” she say without thinking. There’s an awkward silence in the air before Matthew mumbles an agreement and changes the subject to Mei’s brother instead, who’s birthday party plans have been consuming Mei’s life.

“I thought Leon was helping you?”

“Leon? As if. All of his ideas involved fireworks. Yao’s much too old to be playing around with those - he’ll blow himself up.”

“Isn’t your brother 24?”

“Turning 25 - old, isn’t he?”

“But that’s way too young to be a psychologist.”

“Yao’s always been crazy smart.”

Matthew laughs. Conversations are easy around Mei. She’s good at making people feel welcome, which explains why all the new kids and exchange students flock to her.

“We’re like the island of misfit toys,” Alfred used to say, before he left. “and Mei, you’re the queen.”

Mei never questions why Alfred stopped hanging out with them, but sometimes Matthew catches her looking a little sad.


	3. Francis, 30 minutes after

It’s a quiet night for the emergency room which makes parking easy. It is a small mercy that Francis is thankful for. Despite his years of being a terrible Catholic, God appears to be on their side tonight.

The waiting room looks the same as every other one he’s ever been in; suffice to say, that with two athletic sons who’ve suffered everything from broken arms to mild concussions, he’s been in a lot. White walls, faded posters, small television with volume on low hanging in the corner. In the corner there’s a drunkard with a black-eye handcuffed to a cop. Sitting opposite them is an anxious looking woman knitting a scarf like her life depends on it.

Arthur is next to him. He is staring at the noiseless television with glassy eyes. He hasn’t said a word since they arrived, just tap-tap-tapped his fingers on the arm of his plastic chair.

Francis feels the worst sense of déjà vu (or is it really déjà vu if the situation is almost identical?). He’s fourteen years old again in a hospital in France, only it’s day time, not night, and everyone is apologising to him. The fluorescent lights, the click-clacking needles, the triplet-crotchet beat of Arthur’s fingers – not quite the same, but close enough.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and fumbles for his phone. Now’s not the time for memories, he thinks as he scrolls through his contacts.

The tapping stops as he brings the phone to his ear.

“Who are you - ”

“Gilbert.” Francis responds softly but firmly as the shrill dial tone joins the sad little orchestra of waiting room noises.

“Oh.”

From the corner of his eyes he can see Arthur nodding slowly, joining the dots. Their friend Gilbert is an idiot sometimes, but he is a competent lawyer and they trust him. He might not have all the answers but he will be able to help them.

He picks up on the fifth ring.

“The fuck Francis? It’s midnight.”

Gilbert’s voice is laced with sleep and the remnants of red wine. Francis recalls refilling his glass quite a few times earlier that evening at the dinner party where everything had gone wrong.

“Please come to the hospital.”

“What, why? You’re a grown-ass married man with kids. You don’t need me to hold your hand.”

“There’s been an accident. A hit-and-run.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath, the sound of Gilbert sobering up.

“I’m on my way.”

* * *

Gilbert arrives with a takeaway tray of coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other. His eyes are bloodshot and bleary but full of steel, and Francis can tell he’s made the right choice as their friend hands over two correctly memorized coffee orders and listens while Francis explains that their children are in hospital beds and some son-of-a-bitch has put them there.

Gilbert, in his inside-out shirt and baggy track pants, has never once been referred to as a calming presence but he stays with them for hours. His voice, usually a harsh bark, is now the only one in the room that isn’t shaking or sobbing or partially in hysterics. He takes them through their options, talks to the police officer for them, etcetera, etcetera.

Francis is glad for the company, because Arthur is not saying a word.


End file.
